Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

In the coffee shop where we once nestled
I sit by the window
cold air seeping through.
Hard gray rain coming down in diagonals
bouncing off the gray sidewalk
repelling off the windshields and hoods of gray cars parked outside the café.

The pounding kind of rain
that even we poets,
rain-lovers and darkness-dwellers that we are,
find dreary and discouraging.

Too damn wet. Too damn cold. Too damn gray.
That kind of rain. That kind of day.

I used to wait for you
here.
Filled with anticipation,
my heart light and young
our legs brushing against each other while we talked
excitedly
shared
with interest
things we didn’t already know we’d say.

I held open a space for you, and you hurried to meet me.

I couldn’t tell you now when I began to close
nor when you no longer came to meet me.
Sure, you still arrived, showed up, but not to meet me.
You stopped taking me in.
Unmoved by my voice, my touch, my murmurs, my sighs
You grew hard and cold and ash gray.
The pounding kind of absence.

There must be lessons I have not learned.

I remain by the cold window, touching the sill to confirm.
As if I need confirmation:

my nose is cold
my fingertips have turned purplish gray.

Yes, of course,
cold air is seeping through the window.

I Google search the name for the color of purple blended with gray,
hold my fingers up to the Sherwin Williams color chart
study and compare each square to what I now consider fingertip color swatches
seeking the perfect match
that also must have an evocative name

“Veiled Violet”
“Ponder”
“Sensitive Tint”
“Imagine”

The way I try to make poetry from pain.